


Via

by fraisemilk



Category: Mushishi
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 06:15:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6692827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraisemilk/pseuds/fraisemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He went away on a whim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Via

**Author's Note:**

> In latin, "via" can designate a way, a road, as well as a journey or a path. In modern English, we've only kept the idea of "going through". Via is the in-between, the place that is less than where the traveler departed or arrived; yet the "via" is the point that draws the line of the path. Ginko's journey is a continuum of "via" - there is no point that marks its beginning or its end.  
> In the end, it doesn't matter where we are going - we construct ourselves around those points that we will probably never see again, these places through which we went and left behind; summits, valleys, up and down, a path we only make sense of when we make a stop and tiredly look at what is behind us.

I will go away on a whim – my steps heavy, the determined pace of a walker. I will go away on a whim; I want to watch the sun set on twenty three mountains.

Blanched skin and weary head – the winter’s thin fingers brushing the delicate shell of my ears. Blanched cheeks and weary steps; I will stop in this valley.

To put one foot in front of the other; to break the silence and to halt in the forest.

Heavy weight coiling in my shoulders – a snake will bite the flesh of my ankle. Heavy heavy steps of a wanderer – its teeth will sink into the warmth of a bloodstream and split the sick pallor of my bones.

There is the sunlight and there is the rain – the marshy meadows and the swampy lakes; there is the blue hue of valleys and the warmth of earthy summer days – I will sigh and climb the twentieth mountain.

I went away on a whim, oh my heart; I lent you to the birdsong that whistles in gentle mornings and I devoted your beats to the lifetime of a journey. Every day I am welcomed by the chill kiss of the dew and the warm embrace of the sun – by the thunder and the stars, their gleam so high above – will you forgive me for these scares and these joys?

Danger comes shuddering, sliding out of the rotten trunk of a tree. Will my end come when I arrive on the last summit? I stopped counting the mountains and the valleys – a rock could roll under my feet, a branch could fall upon my spine, the flow of a river could drown away my breath – sometimes in my dreams, I watch my body as it lies on the edge of a stream, and turns into a carpet of pink carnations.

I went away on a whim – my steps irresolute, my mind weary of the undistinguishable succession of days and nights. I walk because I cannot wait. What will happen when I see the sun set on the twenty-third mountain?

Will it be then as dark as it is sometimes behind closed eyelids? Will there be a light such as the one that spreads under the surface of the earth? I went away on a whim, oh my heart. Without even knowing where I was going – only that there would be no going back. And whose whim was it, that made me so restless, so eager to use the few minutes and beats, the few shuddering gasps that I had left?

The beatings of my heart the only rhythm, the river the only flow, the light under my feet, the night above and inside me, deep, deep, and the moon shattered crystal that forever turns round and round – the only witness to this aching walk. Was it then for the very world I yearned to understand that I went? And still so unsure of what I must search for, I walk – what will be there on the twenty-third mountain?

There will be: a river, and a snake, and blood, and bones, and the tree that grew there so many years ago. There will be the Last Blue Ray, a flash mayhap, and the darkness that engulfs every unmoving object. It will be cold. A chill will travel across my arms, across my chest, down to my navel. A bell, far away, will chime – on the peak of the twenty third mountain, my whim and my walk will reach their end. I will sigh and then I will gasp, and the air will be the same as on the first mountain – everything will be the same –

On the top of a mountain, I will discover that the truth is single.

I lie awake on the flank of an endless river; I wait, because I cannot walk anymore. My legs have gone numb from the cold. Oh, I wish I could tell you that the snake bit the flesh because it is evil and wished me death;

My hands are too thin and my breath is too short. I walked and walked and walked. I am sleepy now. How many valleys were there? When did I climb the twenty-third mountain? The darkness in my closed eyelid and the light in my heart; the marshy meadows that spread beyond forever and the swampy lakes of unknown depths; the dusty summers and the blue dainty rays of rain; everything is there and, slowly, I sink into myself. The truth is single. I went away on a whim; the last moment has come.

The moon observes.

Tomorrow it will have began its own journey again, just as quietly as when it started. Round and round it goes, searching perhaps, waiting, surely. It shall watch over you, too.

I am sleepy now; I went away on a whim. On whose whim am I going, now? Is it the River below, or the stars above? Everything begins and vanishes in the sum of everything else. In my left eye, a mushi stirs awake. Oh, my heart, please remember.

The truth is single.


End file.
